


A Final Score

by raven_aorla



Series: Sheaths and Safeties [9]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Dubious Morality, F/F, F/M, Families of Choice, Gen, Happy Murder Family, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Multi, Other, Polyamory, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Weird Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-17 03:31:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14824436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla
Summary: Zsasz, age 55, finally gets brought in. The Zsaszettes get Dr. Jonathan Crane to help.[Newcomer friendly.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In memory of Zsasz, irisbleufic's beautiful and mischievous betta fish.

Jim swiveled around in his office chair, moving for the first time after at least two hours of working late. “I heard your footsteps for once. Are you alright?”

Batman said from the shadows, with perhaps the slightest hint of a wry twist to his gravelly voice, “As well as ever, Commissioner. You’ve complained about me startling you.”

“I appreciate the consideration. What’s this about?”

“Penguin and Riddler have recently cut Victor Zsasz and his associates loose. They’re no longer going to pull strings for him if he’s in custody. He’s working alone tonight.”

Batman swirled away before Jim had time to ask him how he knew all this. At least he’d provided a bit of a heads-up. Members of Zsasz’s team had done time in Blackgate and would likely have all sorts of ways to bust him out of there, even if Zsasz hadn’t been so clearly Arkham material that they probably had a uniform tailor-made for him. 

It wasn’t like the old days, though, back when a few signatures and a speedy sentencing could land someone in the asylum and off the overburdened GCPD’s hands. The current psychiatric director would insist on his own protocols, while constantly reminding Jim of his past failings with excruciating politeness. Jim needed to brace himself for the ordeal.

This was all assuming Batman succeeded. In his fifties or not, Zsasz was still formidable.

****

Indeed, when Zsasz was found chained to a lamppost just outside the precinct at 4 AM, there was too much blood on his clothes for all of it to be from his single mild head wound. Jim joined him in the interrogation room much later, where he greeted the commissioner with a sort of smirking chagrin. “I’ve been using my safe word over and over. You need to train your people better. And Batman stole my phone, _tsk_.”

“That would explain why he was saying ‘pistachio’,” Alvarez commented. “We thought it was the concussion. A medic took a look; he’ll be fine. We haven’t allowed a phone call yet, to keep him from warning his gang. Got an...anonymous...tip about his hideouts an hour and a half ago."

So that’s why Batman had stolen his phone. Probably did some sort of fancy triangulation of the origins of past calls to it, beyond GCPD expertise, given that all their best forensics techs kept turning evil or getting poached - or both, in Nygma’s case. Jim didn’t miss him the way he missed Lucius, but he missed his work.

“You’ve redecorated,” Zsasz said. Which might have been the concussion, or might have just been the Zsaszness. His legs were restrained to steel chair legs and his hands and forearms behind his back, after bitter experience with the man’s escape artist tricks. "What time is it?”

“You can sit quietly, you can answer our questions, or you can ask for a lawyer. Those are your options right now.”

Zsasz sighed. “C’mon, Jim, don’t be like that. We’ve known each other for a long time, right? No need to be so snippy. I’m trying to do you a favor.”

“What kind of favor?” Jim’s fingers automatically started reaching for his gun.

“If it’s 9 o’clock and the Zsaszettes haven’t heard from me yet…”

This was, of course, when young Detective Laura Kim called Jim to say that Zsasz's suspected base way out in the rural edge of the municipality, had just blown up. Four severely injured among the GCPD team investigating, one declared death so far, and precious evidence lost forever. Alvarez left with her to work on damage control. Besides, they knew Jim was the only cop Zsasz felt somewhat cordial towards thanks to their long history, and one-on-one with him was likely to be the most productive. If aggravating.

Jim stalked back into the interrogation room, where Zsasz said innocently, “It was the next hour on the hour after I’ve been missing for five hours-ish. Would have called them off for you if you’d have just let me talk to them.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” Jim said coldly. 

“Guess we’ll never know. They’re gonna scatter now, and I honestly don’t know where they’re going.” 

“I bet you have some ideas,” Jim said.

“Lawyer, please.” Zsasz tilted his head and hummed thoughtfully. “And...hm...yeah, I want a shrink, too.”

****

Dr. Jonathan Crane took a seat across Jim’s desk and placed his hands flat on it before speaking. “I’ve been following Mr. Zsasz’s case for some time now, and the two hours you’ve allowed me with him have confirmed my suspicions. He and his lawyer agree to a guilty plea at a sentencing hearing in exchange for my testifying a diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder with histrionic tendencies, with a corresponding recommendation for Arkham.”

“Is that an elaborate way of saying ‘psychopath’?” Jim asked dryly.

“There is some overlap, but Zsasz’s deep, surprisingly healthy attachment to what he considers his ‘family’ precludes that particular categorization. Speaking of which, the other condition is no further questioning regarding their whereabouts.” Dr. Crane sounded like he thought that was reasonable.

Jim gritted his teeth. “You don’t have the power to make offers like that.”

Removing his glasses and looking at Jim with calm judgement, Dr. Crane managed to peel back twenty years and turn back into Jonathan, scrawny disaffected teenage Jonathan, visiting the precinct to pick up his father’s confiscated possessions. Gerald Crane, shot down too late to prevent his son being plunged into Hell. “I don’t think you really want us to discuss your track record trying to de-escalate situations with the mentally ill, Commissioner. I know what I’m doing.”

“Fine.” It was almost irritating how much better Arkham was being run these days. One of Harvey’s post-retirement hobbies was trying to convince Jim that something sinister was behind Dr. Crane’s predecessor’s stress-induced nervous breakdown. The former shattered, psychotic kid had turned around the “it takes one to know one” concept like nobody could have predicted. 

Dr. Crane polished his glasses with a handkerchief and put them back on. “Be glad you’ve caught the big fish. You can pick off the little fish later.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's back! Sorry for the hiatus!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- This chapter contains a moment of what is at best insensitivity to trans* issues, at worst a moment of institutionalized transphobia. It gets called out. 
> 
> \- I've now made this part of the Made to Measure series despite it being mostly Sheaths and Safeties, because it's shaping up to have a bunch of content that readers of either series would be interested in. Or both, naturally. 
> 
> \- For anyone who hasn't read any Made to Measure, "the Reader" originates from there. You don't need to know anything about him for this fic other than what is already embedded within.

Jonathan returned to his city apartment near Arkham after dark. Not having to commute from a spooky old farmhouse every single day was worth the expense, much as he felt more at home on the rural outskirts of Gotham. He locked the door behind him, put down his briefcase, and hung up his coat.

A voice said in the darkness, “I know not being scared of anything is kinda your schtick, but I’d feel better if you had enough self-preservation to turn the damn lights on the second you enter a room unless you’re the one about to ambush someone.”

Flicking the lightswitch, Jonathan gave a slight smile to the wiry man in a light blue tee and indigo bootcut jeans, who could get away with claiming to be much younger than his actual forty, and who was leaning against the wall and toying with a butterfly knife. If he’d been almost anyone else in this scenario, this would have been a visit from Knifepoint, one of Zsasz’s several proteges in his long career and a successful lone operative in his own right. The knife would already be in Jonathan’s chest or slashed across his throat. But at the moment the butterfly knife was basically serving as a fidget spinner, and his still boyishly pretty face and carefully styled short brown hair weren’t hidden from view. Jonathan was actually far safer right now than if this man _weren’t_ here. “Evening, Nefyn. I’d kiss you hello if I was into that.”

“I appreciate the thought,” Nefyn said. He’d gotten over his disappointment at Jonathan’s dislike of casual physical contact years ago, as well as Jonathan’s vague relationship with emotions in general. He still hadn’t gotten tired of sex with Jonathan, despite getting plenty from more affectionate people, and he liked hanging around him for its own sake. 

“Question is why you were in the dark in the first place.” Jonathan made his way to the impeccably tidy kitchen to see if there was any pasta left, or if Nefyn had eaten it all and therefore needed to guilted into making more. 

“I was trying to nap. Been very active. Lot of loose ends to tidy. Wasn’t followed. How’s Victor?” Nefyn’s green eyes were bloodshot, but he was plenty nimble as he started helping Jonathan set up dinner. There was enough pasta left for both of them.

“I maneuvered him safely onto my turf. When there were people he wanted to impress around, he was his usual charming bastard public persona, but when it was just us he was subdued. He sends his love.” Jonathan grabbed plates and cutlery to set the table, since only one person could operate the microwave at a time and Nefyn was clearly full of nervous energy. “If you’ve got everything in hand, I’m going to take a quick shower and get the courthouse miasma off my body.”

Nefyn laughed. “It says something about you that you find the courthouse grosser than either Arkham or your fear gas lab.”

“Don't invalidate my career or hobbies.”

Nefyn held up his hands in mock surrender without putting down his salad tongs. It wouldn’t have been sincere surrender in real life, given that he’d once killed two men in a restaurant with a fork when he ran out of throwing knives, but banter played by different rules. “I have the utmost respect for Scarecrow, don’t get me wrong. We might need his help at some point, not just Dr. Crane’s, but I promise we’ll only tell you exactly as much as you need to know to maintain a few shreds of deniability. Enjoy your ritual cleansing off."

During dinner, Jonathan asked, "Can we talk about something entirely different for the rest of meal? It’s been a challenging ten hours. I’ve still got to write some reports tonight because I was arguing with lawyers all day.” In fact he had a bit of a headache. The very weight of his glasses on his face was getting oppressive.

“Of course, bluejay, you’ve done so much for us already,” Nefyn said softly. 

“I'm mostly doing this for you, Nefyn,” Jonathan said. Then he cringed and quickly took his meds on the off-chance that stress was making him lose his grip and get _sentimental_.

“How early do you need to get up tomorrow? Can you spare any time after you’ve finished your take-home work for me to...express my appreciation for what you just said?” He quirked an eyebrow. 

Jonathan checked the clock on the wall. “Depends how efficient you are. It would help if you did the dishes.”

So Nefyn cleaned up while Jonathan finished a performance evaluation for one decent psychologist and went over the medical data of one patient under Jonathan’s care who was getting much better because she was keeping with the program. He recommended her to be transferred to a halfway house for reintegration into society. Nefyn moved on to group texting with the Zsaszettes, a documentary about sushi that both of them have seen before playing in the background.

“Done yet?” Nefyn asked mildly during a commercial break, curled up on the other end of the sofa and inches from touching. 

“Almost. Trying to diplomatically word a report about a patient who mysteriously started showing new psychotic symptoms and intense paranoia shortly after he’d behaved unacceptably towards Dr. Harleen Quinzel.”

“Mysteriously?” Nefyn snorted. “You rascal.”

“He deserved it. I haven’t told her, though I think she’s guessed.” She was too good a person to be friends with Jonathan, really, but by the time she'd found out exactly how true it was she was too attached to him to turn back. “By the way, I’ve assigned Harley as Zsasz’s psychologist so he feels like he can speak freely to someone who genuinely won’t judge him. I’ve always thought therapy would do him good.”

“Oh, we’ve all thought that, but assigned from the legal problems he would threaten to make the rest of us go too if we pushed him into it. Ugh. You done yet?” 

Jonathan moved his work off his lap and onto the table. “Chose enough."

Turning off the TV, Nefyn crept that last few inches and into Jonathan’s lap, taking his glasses off for him. He didn’t kiss Jonathan until he already had his right hand safely down his pants. 

For the first time in a long while, Jonathan thought about how weird it was that those lips and hands currently on him had also been on Zsasz himself. But Nefyn had always been upfront about that ever since their business relationship had turned into something more. 

There was a more pressing matter, though. Literally. “Is that a knife strapped your thigh, or did you get bitten by a radioactive two-dicked creature?”

“Shit, I forgot about that one. Gimme a sec.”

Jonathan put two fingers under Nefyn’s chin and tipped it up. He dug the fingernails of his other hand into the muscle over Nefyn’s ribs. “What was that?”

Nefyn’s pupils immediately dilated wide. “Please give me a moment to rectify my mistake in not disarming thoroughly before servicing you. I’ll, um, I’ll take whatever punishment you see fit. Doctor.”

“Good boy.” The headache was all gone. 

Afterwards, Nefyn took a much-needed shower while Jonathan brushed his teeth. They’d cuddled for nearly fifteen minutes because Jonathan was willing to step outside his comfort zone to provide responsible aftercare. Behind the translucent shower curtain that left little to the imagination, Nefyn said, “I’m going to visit the gals tomorrow to work out our game plan in person. Anything you want me to say to them?”

“Tell them I won’t take money for this, and I won’t agree to a plan that would cause serious harm to anyone in Arkham I don’t have an issue with. I don’t have a lot of ethics but I have professional standards. I won’t kick up much of a fuss if Warden Pelham has to go, though.” Jonathan approved of the rationale behind the chief psychiatrist (for everyone) and the chief of corrections (for the criminally insane) being different people, for checks and balances as well as a lighter workload, but the current one was exhausting and beyond Jonathan’s disciplinary reach. Official or chemical. Only so many wardens could have breakdowns before Harvey Bullock would storm his way back out of retirement and shout that he had been right about Crane Jr. all along. 

The water shut off and an arm reached out to grope for a towel. “I bet Candy would get a kick out of that.”

***

Candy didn’t like her bed at the secondary safehouse, one the police and Batman didn’t seem to know about and hopefully never would. Too short and soft. (Like her first boyfriend’s equipment, badum tish.) Plus she had to share the room with Leonara, who didn’t snore much but did toss and turn a ton. Whatever. They could afford to sleep in this morning. Candy changed into one of the few outfits she’d stashed here. Most of her possessions had gone up in smoke, but at least she had a few sets of clothes here aside from the work clothes she’d had on her back when everything went kaboom. 

She emerged into the common area, yawning and wondering where all this hella bland, generic wall art of sailboats had come from. Less depressing than blank walls, she supposed. Yoona was doing pushups while murmuring affirmations to herself. The years had hardened and sharpened her petite body rather than softening it like it had Candy’s, not that Candy had let herself go or anything. Kali was taking stock of their first-aid supplies and making a list of anything they needed to replace, as she always did after anyone had needed something from it. Thankfully nobody got worse than first-degree burns and a few cuts and scrapes. Half a bowl of some excessively healthy thing with grains and fruit sat next to her steaming mug of chai, and her long hair was down and unbraided for once. Leonara was next to her, flicking through TV channels with a more intriguing meaty breakfast and coffee close by. 

“Morning, Candy,” Leonara said without taking her eyes off the screen. “You can have the rest of the ham if you want. Make more coffee if you finish the pot. Could you give Thistle a call? You’re the only one with her number memorized.”

“This is why we don’t rely on our address books in case we have to ditch our phones,” Candy said, a tiny bit smugly. She hadn’t been the newbie in twenty years, but she still remembered feeling like an interloper walking on a tightrope after Zsasz suddenly changed his mind and decided to recruit her rather than kill her. 

She fetched coffee, then went back into the bedroom for some quiet and fired up her burner phone. Thistle answered on the second ring.

“Which of you is it?” she asked.

“Candy. Those who live by the sword…”

“Get shot by those who don’t. Those who live by the gun…”

“Get blown up by those who live by the dynamite.” You could tell that Zsasz was the one who came up with the security phrases. “Did you get out of town okay?”

“Yeah, we did.”

“We?” Though Candy could guess.

“I didn’t want to leave, you know, the Reader.” The Reader demanded that people who knew his real name only use it during face-to-face interactions, one of the few things he wasn't relatively chill about by eccentric criminal mastermind standards.

“I’m glad you’re safe and not lonely. I think we can get by without you, though if the Reader would like to consult…” They'd only worked with him a handful of times, but it was enough to know he'd be an asset in this case. At the same time, no one wanted Thistle anywhere near the place where Hugo Strange had hurt her.

“He says he’s sorry all of you have been inconvenienced, but he's tired of dealing with Batman and Gotham as a whole. Also he thinks the current, improved Arkham is what Zsasz needs. We argued, but I eventually agreed to disagree with him on that. It makes sense from someone who had his own mom institutionalized. He adored her, I know he did, and I don't want to unpack all that." Thistle sighed. “Anyway, the household is breaking up, right?”

“Yeahhhhh, probably. We should scatter. It’s all gonna…” Candy made a descending swoop noise.

“Let’s stay in touch. Somehow.”

“Yes, we will. You sound like you’re gonna cry, sweetie. It’s okay. It’s probably good. We’re all getting kinda old for this. Except maybe superhuman you.”

"Indian Hill was good for something, at least,” Thistle said wryly, through the obvious lump in her throat. “Sure, I left the crew way back when except in emergencies, but you were always there for me, the only family I remember having, and...oh god I swore I wasn’t gonna cry…”

“It’s okay. It makes sense to be upset, but I want you to go have fun and not worry about us. Don’t do anything illegal for awhile, maybe. I’m being yelled for. I’ll call when there’s news.”

Everyone now had food and drink and was watching Commissioner Jim Gordon holding a press conference. Right now he was clicking through a Powerpoint presentation. Candy didn’t feel hungry anymore, so she slipped into the space between Kali and one arm of the sofa, clutching her coffee in both hands.

Gordon was saying: “...given our concern that Zsasz’s associates who are at large may attempt to retrieve him, we ask that the public be on high alert for these individuals. First, Leonara Patterson. This is a mugshot from the last time she was arrested many years ago, alongside a mockup of how she is likely to look now, and a few surveillance images…”

“I look terrible,” Leonara complained.

“Nobody looks good in a mugshot, L,” Yoona said. She’d laced her fingers with Kali’s and was leaning with her head on Kali’s shoulder. .

Leonara gestured at the screen. “You look great in that mugshot. Killer lipstick.”

“I wish he didn’t keep telling everyone how old we are, though,” Yoona said darkly.

Candy rolled her eyes. “Shut up, both of you, Miss Black Don’t Crack and Miss Asian Don’t Raisin. We're only in our forties and fifties.” She realized that was over the hill for people in their line of work - other than Kali, who could keep patching up criminals until her hands could no longer make a decent suture - but they all needed a morale boost.

Gordon showed images of Nefyn all suited and booted, black gloves on his hands and a navy blue bandanna over his nose and mouth. Since iris pattern recognition had become more widespread he’d started wearing tinted contact lenses while working in order to confuse cameras as well, but it wasn’t obvious from here. “We are investigating potential leads about the identity of the hired killer with the alias ‘Knifepoint’, but we can’t release those to the public yet. His age is estimated to be in his early thirties...”

“That’s unfair,” Yoona said. “Not the being investigated thing, which we gotta warn him about. The underestimating Nefyn’s age thing. It's ‘cause they haven’t seen his face. Crow’s feet wrinkles."

“Cute lil’ crow’s feet for a cute lil’ crow’s sub,” Candy sing-songed before taking a sip. She preferred not to drink her coffee black but she didn’t want to take her eyes off the screen to add cream and sugar. She wasn't too worried about the investigation aspect as long as he kept his cool. At most, the GCPD was suspicious because of nineteen-year-old Nefyn making one sketchy-but-legal message delivery associated with Zsasz, with no real evidence of criminal activity since his days as a juvenile offender. He'd laid an elaborate paper trail of legitimate employment and solid-looking alibis since then. He was dedicated enough that he faithfully paid taxes corresponding to his fake job. More power to him. Candy had never been given a choice to whether be a known member of a crime family. These people had given the her chance to be part of one she actually liked.

“How’s Thistle?” Kali asked Candy in a low voice under the noise of the broadcast.

“Sad but safe and free,” Candy replied.

It looked like the police didn’t know about Thistle. Good. She hadn’t done much fieldwork with them while in training and had left to do her own thing soon after. They did mention Jesús, which was impressive because none of the group knew where the hell he was. It was depressing to think about all their fallen family: Jesús was MIA, though they hoped he might be kicking ass and tinkering with his beloved cars in Mexico. Teeth had another twenty-six years on a sentence being served in Montana. If his breakup with Thistle had gone better, she might have tried to bust him out and he might have let her. As it was, some of them sent him nice mail from time to time and wished him best of luck with getting parole in ten. Ploy and Whisper were wheelchair-bound and had left Gotham for gentler pastures. Chloe, Jane, Dustin, and Britney were dead, Dustin’s death being from a citywide blackout and loss of life support long after he fell into a coma. Rhiannon was in a coma right now. Last they heard, Amanita had cut a deal with the FBI by testifying against her former employers currently engaged in a mob war in Chicago, but whatever the deal was had resulted in her falling off the map. Really, the only Zaszettes, Zsaszeurs, close Family friends, and ex-apprentices still known to be active were the ones who'd stayed close to Victor Zsasz himself. What did that mean now that he was locked up?

Candy tuned back in right on time for Gordon to mightily piss her off. “...We know they have a specific mob doctor in consistent employment, but that’s the extent of our knowledge of him or her. Finally, we’re on the lookout for Candace ‘Candy’ Maroni, birth name Cesar Maroni…”

“What the fuck. Tell me he didn’t use your deadname on air when it’s not at all relevant to the case,” Leonara said, sounding as angry as Candy felt.

“The GCPD has never been a bastion of enlightenment, unfortunately,” Kali said. “Are you okay, Candy?”

“Fine.” Everyone looked at her. “I’m fine!”

The floor opened for questions. _“Commissioner, should the people of Gotham be worried about these fugitives?"_

“They’ve only been known to kill other members of the Gotham underworld, law enforcement, and people who try to stop them, and chances are good that it will stay this way. No need to panic. However, citizens are advised to remain vigilant and not engage, just report sightings.”

_"Commissioner, why hasn’t the GCPD made more of an effort to apprehend them before now?"_

“They’ve never made much of an effort, let’s be real,” Leonara said. Everyone except Kali snickered. Kali was texting someone. 

“We have been,” Gordon said, way too defensively. “But now they’re leaderless. It changes the game.”

_"Commissioner, sources say your forensics team dug up a number of suspicious containers around their destroyed base. Have you analyzed the results yet?"_

It soothed Candy’s feelings when the journalist wore Gordon down enough to get him to admit that the yard had been full of jars of kimchi, courtesy of their secretly neurotic and starvation-obsessed second-generation Korean-American Zsaszette. There hadn’t been anything else. Everyone in the room gave Yoona a high five, including her high-fiving herself while maintaining a poker face.

“Nefyn’s at the door,” Kali said, glancing up from her phone. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Nefyn said when he arrived, bearing food and other supplies, including Candy’s medication. He and Kali were more or less unknown to the police and had agreed to trade off doing errands while the others stayed out of sight. “I was making Victor a care package for Jonathan to pass on. And by care package I mean an attempt at a bento box. I was inspired and had insomnia.”

“You’ve never stopped being too cute,” Candy said, pulling him into a kiss. They had to get down to business soon, but she allowed herself to savor a fragment of home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read "A Deeper Cut", the early version of the Zsasz Family member who spent time in a coma was named Martin, but then a Martin came along in the real show. I went back and switched my offscreen OC to Dustin. He died in the Season 3 Jerome-induced blackout. Britney and Rhiannon are new names thrown in among the fallen because I don't think the household would have remained static ever since the events of "A Bushel and a Peck" in the Made to Measure series, and I need a high overall loss rate for thematic purposes but am reluctant to kill my faves.


	3. Chapter 3

Zsasz woke to the sound of a guard loudly rapping at the door and saying they had to get moving if they wanted a hot meal. He hadn’t slept well. The uniform was a little itchy and the bunk had a weird dip in it. The main thing, though, was that it wasn’t home, with one of his people either right next to him or at least only down the hall. At least his cellmate hadn’t made much noise.

“Was that real?” Dover asked, poking his head out from the bottom bunk. Skinny guy in his sixties-ish with gray hair and green eyes. When introducing himself, he said he was former hired muscle whose schizophrenia didn’t get noticed until he’d already spent a few years in Blackgate. He’d spent the past forty years in and out of being locked up in some way or another. In two more years he could be evaluated again for parole/outpatient and hoped to get approved this time. He hadn’t shared anything else about himself, and he’d already heard of Zsasz. 

“Yeah, it was real,” Zsasz assured him. Fucking with Dover’s head might have been kinda amusing, but it wouldn’t really be fun shooting a wounded bird. 

Breakfast wasn’t as horrible as it could’ve been, but it’s not great. He was given to understand that the Patients with a capital P got slightly better food than the Inmates with a Capital I. Arkham these days separated those convicted of violent crimes from those who weren’t, going as far as housing them in different wings, and then broken down further by how much of a risk they supposedly were to others and themselves. Petty thieves and so on were lumped in with the Patients if they behaved. 

A few people recognized Zsasz, given the stares. One must have borne a grudge against him and was also dumb, because he flipped him off. Zsasz shrugged in his general direction. The only person Zsasz recognized was Clayface, which was ironic, but the dude had misaligned his nose in a way not physically possible for anyone else. Zsasz approached that table and smiled at the woman sitting next to Clayface. “I wanna catch up with Picasso here.” 

“You’re not the boss of me,” the woman said, looking ready to flick fruit cocktail at him. 

Zsasz’s smile widened but didn’t reach his eyes. “Please? Just this time. Promise.”

“We’ll talk at lunch,” Clayface told her. She scowled and moved on. The other people immediately around them watched the proceedings but didn’t butt in, talking about their own shit.

“Hey, Basil. Still out to pasture on the funny farm, huh?” Zsasz asked him, plopping his tray down. For little Thistle’s sake, he’d done enough research to know that any convicted criminal whose head Strange has messed with was considered insane by default, unless their lawyer made an excellent argument otherwise and Dr. Crane testified in agreement. 

“Don’t do that again. You know how few women there are in the Inmate wing? I think she likes me.” He looked off in her direction and sighed. Cute. 

Zsasz wondered if anyone ever asked the guy to look like someone else in bed. “Sorry to cockblock whatever can realistically happen under the circumstances, buddy. I really didn’t know you were here. I heard Tetch was.”

“Yeah, but he’s in solitary. Also I’m not your buddy. We’ve worked together twice.” He turned his attention to his meal.

“Fine, be like that.” Zsasz ended up not eating much. Less because he was picky and more because of the ambiance disagreeing with him. 

When he went for his first medication consultation with Dr. Crane, though, Jonathan dropped the official act once they were alone and handed over an honest-to-god Japanese-style bento box Nefyn had made. It included mini rice balls with seaweed bits making them look like puppies. It was sickeningly adorable from someone the whole team had called the Puppy for several years until he finished his apprenticeship/indentured servitude. He thanked Jonathan but didn’t full-on beam over it. Even though they’d known each other since the kid was Nygma’s pet mad scientist teenager in need of protection, he didn’t like showing too many cards to anyone who wasn’t _his_. 

“You’re going to have to eat it before you leave my office to avoid suspicion, but we’ve got nearly fifteen minutes left,” Jonathan said, handing over a pair of reusable chopsticks. “I’ll prescribe you placebo pills full of sugar right away, but since we don’t actually keep those in stock it’ll take one or two days before the nurse will start dispensing them to you. The cover story will be that I want to establish a baseline of how you react to this environment in an unmedicated state.”

“Cool.” 

“You’re seeing Dr. Quinzel this afternoon. Be nice to her.”

“I’m always nice to her.” Not that he and Harleen Quinzel had interacted super often, but she was a nice girl who’d simply fallen in with the wrong crown from the day she’d befriended the weird loner in her Intro to Psych class and sank irrevocably downwards when she found out years later that he’d killed a bunch of people for science and without his awful dad’s help. Also, one time she’d snapped and beaten an ex-boyfriend to death when he turned mean on her, which Zsasz admired in a lady. 

“Continue, please.” Jonathan wrote a few notes in fountain pen. Zsasz wondered how the hell had nobody noticed that it had a tiny umbrella with an upside-down question mark handle engraved on it. Probably a graduation gift. Maybe he didn’t whip it out around other people. “Your people are plotting as we speak. If I don’t say anything, it’s because I either don’t know or it’s best you don’t know. In the meantime, go with the flow and don’t complicate matters. We can’t show you preferential treatment. I am not losing this job over you.”

Dr. Quinzel - Zsasz was calling that in her head right now so he could be sure to treat her seriously enough - said something similar when he was across from her. She said not to ask her anything, and that she would turn a blind eye to shenanigans but would stay out of it as much as she could. Her desk was off to the side. This meant there was no barrier between her chair and the patient’s chair. The patient’s chair had straps on it to restrain someone if necessary, and she wore a taser clipped to her belt. Otherwise she looked dressed for any office position, with a red pencil skirt, white button-up, black blazer and pumps, and shiny diamond-shaped black earrings. Her blonde hair was piled up on her head in a style that reminded him way more of Candy’s than it should have. 

“How’s your other half?” Zsasz asked.

She raised an eyebrow. “She’s fine. We’re fine. We’re not here to talk about me. However long you’re going to be here, Victor - can I call you that?” She’d only ever called her “Mr. Zsasz” before now.

He spread his hands. “We’re on your turf, Dr. Quinzel.”

A flicker of unprofessional but entertaining glee crossed Dr. Quinzel’s face before she went back to businesslike. “However long you’re going to be here, Victor, I’m going to act as though you’re going to be here for the entire sentence you’ve been given. We’re going to actually do real therapy. Your assigned psychiatrist determines your strictly medical treatment, and the Warden signs off on the security measures needed to keep you contained, but your psychologist determines your privileges. Everything from how much time you can handle the freedom the outdoor exercise yard per day, to what recreational activities you can participate in peacefully, to whether your meals involve access to hot liquids and cutlery other than spoons.”

Zsasz snorted. “I think a little part of you is enjoying this.”

“I would genuinely love to help you. I don’t work at Arkham just for power trips. I believe even people with a body count like yours can get better.” She took a few notes without breaking eye contact with him. Not the best party trick, but still something he couldn’t have done. “Before you say anything about my best friend, he’s proof that treatment and the right kinds of goals can work. He hasn’t killed anybody since high school.”

“He just psychologically tortures people instead?” 

She gave him a half-smile, acknowledging the absurdity. “He’s never gonna be a wholesome person, but he’s directed his energies into more productive directions. You...I’ve been worried about you for a long time. For you, I mean.”

“You’re sounding patronizing, honey, and also I don’t know what you mean.”

“Let go of the armrests.”

He hadn’t realized he had a white-knuckle grip on them. He relaxed his hands. “Explain.”

Calmly, she continued, “You used to know how many tally marks you had, right? Do you have any idea how many there are now?”

“So?” The bare skin was difficult to reach by this point and he’d started using a hand mirror to assist in placement, but whatever.

“Do they feel as good as they used to?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “The main thing about you that makes you not fit a diagnosis of psychopathy is how much you care about the family you’ve put together. But only a few of them are still alive, free, and healthy. You’ve got two tallies going, Victor, not one. I doubt I’m the only one who thinks that the one which doesn’t actually make you happy anymore, the one that everyone you’ve lost fell victim to, is going to win.”

After a long silence, Zsasz asked, “Can we talk about my childhood or something?” She had mercy and they did. 

Near the end of their session, she said, “By the way, I also have some control over roommate assignments as logistics permit. Are you and Mr. Dover doing okay?”

“So far, why?”

“I’ve got a favor to ask. I suspect something about him, but I don’t want to bias your opinion by telling you what I suspect. I’m not his psychologist and it would be very not okay for me to grill his, but I’ve seen his basic bio and stats because I had to go through suitable candidates for you to share with. I put you with him on purpose. Keep an eye out for me, please?” She clasped her hands and pressed them against her chest. “Hey, it’ll give you something productive to chew on.”

Then his escort to his cell knocked on the door, and Zsasz didn’t have time to ask wtf she meant by that.

****

Before they got into the serious brainstorming, Candy dragged Nefyn into a suitable cuddling position on the couch. She was stressed and nobody was allowed to drink when they were on high alert, so this was the next best thing. The others tidied up and put away Nefyn’s purchases.

Yoona held up a bunch of bananas he’d bought. “These are very green.”

He lifted his head and frowned. “Oh, are they? I’m sorry. Under the circumstances, I was nervous about drawing attention to myself by asking someone.” Someone with the most common form of olor blindness would have been able to tell the difference between green and yellow, but Nefyn always had to be so extra. 

“Leave him alone. We can wait.” Candy spotted a bit of folded paper in his back pants pocket. “Can I read your note?”

“If you want. It’s from Jonathan.”

Had the general mood been lighter, Candy would make a crack about who the hell used cursive these days. It was neat enough that she could easily read it aloud, though. He talked about giving Zsasz medication starting tomorrow or the day after, fake stuff if requested, and a few other details about his treatment and condition. It ended with: “Good luck with your scheming. Mild injuries towards Arkham employees - other than the obvious one - are acceptable. Violence towards Warden Pelham, of any level, would be a nice bonus. If any of your actions result in harm towards my patients or destruction towards Arkham, life-ruining repercussions will follow. Nefyn might avoid the worst of it, but only because I’d miss having him in my life and relatively sane.” 

“Aw, kitten, Crow Bro loves you,” Leonara drawled from her new position cross-legged in an armchair. 

“I don’t think he’s joking,” Nefyn said.

“He isn’t, and I don’t think we’d necessarily escape him if he was really determined,” Yoona said, still stocking the fridge. She sounded practical rather than intimidated. “I like my mind how it is. Let’s talk about how to pull our operation off without breaking those rules.”

They talked and talked and talked, over printouts of Arkham’s layout and big poster paper that ended up covered in felt tip scribbles. Kali usually stayed out of these types of strategy meetings unless they thought they might need medical assistance during it, though she often listened in. But partway through the third hour of debate, she cleared her throat and said, “I have an idea.”

Everyone else went silent.

“It’ll only require some stealing, lying, and putting Victor in a minor amount of danger as long as he follows directions. He’s not going to enjoy it, though. Also I’ll need Nefyn’s backup on an errand I have to run pretty much the moment everyone agrees with me, and a lot of the emergency cash.”

***

Nefyn didn’t accompany Kali into the “specialist pharmaceuticals” shop in the Narrows, partly because she wanted to appear non-threatening unless something went down, and partly because this wasn’t a good area to leave a car as nice as his unattended. So he leaned against the side of his car, keeping watch, and thought about the only future he cared to envision. He didn’t check his messages until Kali was back with him, carrying a brown paper bag.

“What’s that?” she asked as she buckled up.

“Oh, Brayden says some cops stopped by asking to talk to me. I might blow off some steam by leading Gordon and his underlings on a merry chase.” Brayden got significantly reduced rent for pretending that Nefyn was his roommate rather than a guy who sublet a tiny apartment and occasionally dropped in to collect mail. It was safer for Jonathan if there wasn’t documentation of them living together. 

“Just be careful. I don’t want to do something like this ever again.”

He pulled out of his parking space and narrowly avoided a random heap of garbage. “Are you sure you’ve calculated the exact right dose for him to take every day?” 

“Based on about twenty-five years of being his physician, yes.” Her voice did not waver.

“And you’re super sure the Arkham medical staff will sent him to the E.R. rather than try to handle it themselves?”

“If he follows my instructions and therefore the timing works out, yes. They won’t know what’s going on until it’s reached a point where they will think that’s the only option.”

“And you are super super super sure you can fix him single-handedly?”

She pulled a smaller brown bag out of the first and waggled it. “That shop and I go way back to my mob doctor days. You can ask Jonathan to analyze the pills first, but I trust them. You trust me. During my time practicing in West Bengal, the poorest people accidentally drank water tainted with it depressingly often. I treated a lot of cases.” Though American-born, she had family in that Indian province, so she’d done some work in the region before she became a combat medic and eventually washed up in Gotham, not nearly as idealistic as when she’d started. 

Nefyn let out a nervous giggle. He wasn’t too manly to admit it. He’d understood knives before he understood cars, he was pretty good with a gun, and he was no slouch with garrotes or clubs or all sorts of other weapons, even killing with his bare hands if he needed to. He’d never messed with arsenic.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains recreational drug use by a minor character, in passing.

Jim got a phone call from an unlisted number: "It's me. Nefyn Pontiac goes to the underside of South Arbor bridge almost every Thursday night at nine to visit street kids he mentors." Then the line went dead.

***

Over the decades the city had attempted varied initiatives to reduce homelessness, especially youth homelessness. Not all of those attempts had been secretly evil, which for Gotham was as good as you were going to get. Regardless, the underside of the South Arbor bridge was as much a gathering spot for runaways and throwaways now as it had been when Nefyn had called it home.

Yeah, homelessness was a symptom, not the disease. Yeah, he might not be ultimately changing anything. But Nefyn showed up anyway, big duffel bag over his shoulder, and tonight so did six kids in varying degrees of disheveled. He distributed the food first before holding up a package. “Bobby, you only get this binder if you promise me you won’t wear it to sleep, when you’re exercising, or for more than eight hours, okay?"

Caleb had asked for new socks. Renee had asked for more sanitary pads. Little things. Nefyn played Depressing Santa until his bag was empty and they’d all gathered around the trashcan fire for Storytime.

“I’m not telling any of you what to do, but I checked out the new shelter on Growler and Sixth and it looks legit. They won’t throw anyone out for who they are. Not like those Salvation Army assholes have sometimes. And if you do go there, I’ll check up on you, just like I do here. I’ll take you there myself if you ask me to. I’ll take you away from there if you give it a few nights and change your mind.” These weren’t kids who were simply poor or lost. These were kids who had reason to be afraid of the system, or feared their family being able to find them. He remembered that far too well.

Some of them looked interested. Others looked dubious. He didn’t want to push the matter right now, though he planned to circle back to it for more gentle nudging. Instead he asked them how they were doing, and listened. When in their place, he would have given a lot to have had an adult who just listened.

Then Poppy exclaimed, “Cop!” and all half-dozen scattered.

Nefyn turned around. “Commissioner James Gordon, you frightened my pals,” Nefyn reproached.

Gordon sighed. Nefyn suspected a part of the man was always sighing in the background, that it came with having his position and actually giving a damn about doing a decent job. “Nefyn Pontiac, right? Sorry. I’m not here on anything official, but I happened to hear about this, uh, this kind-hearted routine of yours, and I was in the area. I’d like to talk. Just talk.”

Nefyn raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh. This is a bit below your paygrade.”

“I thought you might be more comfortable talking to an acquaintance, Mr. Pontiac.”

“You mean from my age-nineteen visit to the precinct? I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I had a more positive impression of Lucius Fox. I felt like we clicked. I’d talk to him for hours. You should have tried harder to keep him on board.” Nefyn made an over-the-top wistful noise and clasped his hands to his chest.

“Sorry, it’s just me.” Gordon arranged his features in something meant to be reassuring.

By this point, Nefyn had determined all the most likely locations of Gordon’s heavily armed backup. If they really thought he might be Knifepoint, there’d be more than one officer ready to jump him. Nefyn doubted an outright attack if he remained compliant and they were out on the street in a cop-unfriendly quarter, but he didn’t like this arrangement. Time to throw a curveball. “Sure! There’s an amazing kebab shop, like, five minutes’ walk from here where I was going to stop next. They stay open late to cater to the drunks, like British ones do, or so I’ve heard. I’ve never gotten to travel much. If you’re not hungry yet, you will be when you smell the lamb, I promise. C’mon. My treat.”

He cajoled Gordon into coming along through enthusiasm and apparent cluelessness. During the walk, he used his sleight-of-hand and misdirection skills, ones he mostly used for surprise stabs, in order to take out his phone and send a text without Gordon noticing.

The place was tiny and the rush of customers hadn’t arrived yet, so for now they were only sharing the place with one furtive-looking couple in a corner and the staff themselves. “Two number four orders with extra hummus on the side, please,” Nefyn announced the moment they walked in. The burly man tending to the slab of rotating meat grunted. Victor had taught him all about using food theft or unexpected food-related generosity as a universal way to throw people off-balance. Also, Nefyn quickly chose one of the flimsy plastic tables that would give himself a relatively clear path to the kitchen, with all its interesting options for improvisation if needed.

“So you want to ask me about what went down at Foxglove last Tuesday?” The BDSM club where Nefyn supposedly worked as normal security really had suffered an altercation that night. Just because he was more of an informal guardian angel that they repaid by supplying him alibis didn’t mean he didn’t keep his finger on the pulse.

Lowering his voice, Gordon asked, “I’d like to ask you if you know anything about Victor Zsasz’s remaining crew.”

“Sir, just because I admitted to having a few good times with them when I was _nineteen_ and with a highly skewed ratio of cuteness to sense doesn’t mean I have great insight into what they’ve been up to since then. I watch the news like anyone else.” Their waters arrived. Gordon didn’t touch his, which was smart in general, though Nefyn had no plans to hurt him.

“I’d like a yes or no answer,” Gordon said. He looked half-dead under the fluorescent lights and the red-purple glare of the neon OPEN sign.

“Like, at all, or do you mean related to their criminal activities? I don’t think you want to know stuff like everyone’s preferred flavor of edible lube. Though maybe that’s changed since then.” Nefyn crunched an ice cube between his teeth. Years ago, Batman had been far more direct at trying to squeeze information out of Nefyn, but that was vigilantes for you. Whether or not he genuinely believed Nefyn’s claims of no involvement in Casa del Zsasz’s killings, nothing had ultimately come of it, except Jonathan being annoyed with the man bat critter and the Zsaszettes treating Nefyn to drinks.

Before Gordon tried bringing up all the other suspicious things about Nefyn, a man in all black except for an indigo blue beanie pulled over his hair and a navy blue bandanna over his nose and mouth stormed in. He flicked a switchblade but didn’t point it at Gordon, just held it up for emphasis. “Hey, Jim, that was a shitty thing to say about my best friend Candy, and totally irrelevant. You’re supposed to be the good guys. She legally changed her name ages ago. End of the goddamn story.”

Gordon’s eyes were huge. “Sorry?”

“You should be. There goes one of the last shreds of respect we all had for you.” Then he darted up again and shimmied up a drainpipe to the roof, out of sight and presumably running off. Gordon muttered something and ran after him.

“To go?” the server asked Nefyn, now sitting alone, as she brought the food. Nobody remaining in the establishment seemed concerned. Gothamites, particularly in this part of the city, rarely were concerned by the actions of strangers until crap like screaming, bleeding, freezing, or combusting started.

“If you could bag one of them, that’d be great,” he said, beaming at her. He ate his portion in a leisurely way, not leaving until a particular text with a particular code phrase lit up his phone screen, and he tipped generously.

Nefyn had a key to the apartment he sublet, but he knocked a 5/4 time signature pattern on the front door before letting himself in. Brayden was sprawled on the living room rug in nothing but briefs, contemplating a small plastic container held aloft in one hand. All the Knifepoint accoutrements that Nefyn had left him were folded and piled next to his head. He turned his head to give Nefyn a shy, exhausted smile. “Dude, I was so freaked out being chased by the motherfucking Commissioner and two other motherfucking pigs, I’m thinking of popping two Paperboys. I try not to dip too much into my own product, but…”

When selecting Brayden for a fake roommate, Nefyn had been particularly interested in the fact that though Brayden was eight years younger than him, they were approximately the same height and build with similar voices. Brayden was a strong, graceful pro dancer and 5k running enthusiast who was game for a bit of high-stakes roleplay if the money was right. In general he had trouble getting consistent work, and supplemented it with petty drug dealing: painkillers, benzos, and Paperboy.

“Let me get you a glass of water to wash them down and the $500 I promised,” Nefyn said.

“You want any? On the house.”

“Nah, thanks.” Brayden had no idea that Nefyn would shortly be going home to the person who invented Paperboy, which was just a commercially-friendly ingestible version of the injected antidote to Scarecrow’s fear toxin. These days it was more a source of passive income, Jonathan maintaining secrecy about certain active ingredients but mostly hands-off. The correct dosage caused a comfortable, cozy high, while excessive consumption could lead to lethargy, suggestibility, and excessive affection towards one’s supplier. Jonathan given part of the formula to a real pharmacologist in his pocket in the hopes of it becoming a legit mental health drug one day, but that version was still mired in development.

Brayden had already dry-swallowed the pills by the time Nefyn returned, but he took a sip from the sports bottle anyway. “Just tuck the Benjamins in my waistband like I’m a stripper. It’ll be funny.”

“If you say so.” Nefyn crouched down and did so in the least sexual way possible, then got to his feet. “Have a good night.”

“Wait, wait, I wanted to tell you that I’m thinking of moving out in, like, two months, maybe? Sooner if I can find a place. I like the reduced rent but your rule about not being able to have people over is cramping my style. No offense. I want to leave you time to find someone else.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” Nefyn said. He gathered up the Knifepoint ensemble and left.

When he got properly home, Jonathan was walking in big circles around the kitchen talking on the phone.. He tiptoed in but waved to announce his presence. Jonathan waved back without missing a beat of his sentence: “...I mean, things like that are going to happen because of you two severing your ties with all your henchpeople and cleaning up your act, but I promise I have everything under control on my end. I need to wrap this up soon, sorry. Tell your husband hello and the same sentiment from me. What? C’mon, Nygma, we all agreed that you need this. Him too. I’d love a postcard. We’ll talk when you’re back. _Take your medication._ Bye!”

“Did they find out about Victor?” Nefyn asked.

“Yeah. It can’t be good for Nygma's recovery, but I've already given them my best when comes to professional advice and friendship, so there's no point in thinking about it.” Jonathan eyed the carryout bag in Nefyn’s hand. “What is that?”

“From that kebab place near the bridge. Have you had dinner?” When it took more than four seconds for Jonathan to answer, Nefyn groaned. “I swear if you didn’t have me and Harley to shove food in front of you at intervals, you would have dwindled away to nothing ages ago.”

“Hey, I was busy going to my house so I could use my own lab for testing the arsenic and dimercaptosuccinic acid samples you gave me. I can confirm they are as advertised and sent Kali an all-clear for the next phase." Jonathan wilted into a chair when Nefyn gave him A Look. “How’d your Thursday ritual go? Were you right in assuming your pattern’s been noticed?”

Nefyn cackled and readied the microwave. “I didn't make Brayden dress up and hide nearby in vain. I’ll tell you the whole story while you eat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dimercaptosuccinic acid/DMSA/succimer is for treating lead, mercury, and arsenic poisoning.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear emetophobes: if you are very sensitive, there are two vague references to watch out for in the first and second to last sections.
> 
> To my knowledge, nobody tries very hard to make Arkham realistic. I've endeavored to improve it, but it's still got touches of weirdness and darkness. We can imagine that the wing meant only for mentally ill people who haven't committed crimes more closely resembles a modern-day psych facility of reasonable quality.
> 
> In an earlier chapter, I originally mistyped how long Dover has been in and out of prison/Arkham, with a few stretches of freedom. What this chapter says is correct.

"What you need to know about the plan is as follows," Jonathan told Zsasz the moment their second consultation began. They didn’t have much time. As Psychiatric Director, he couldn’t spare as many the hours as he liked to personally working with patients in between all his administrative duties. He had to let subordinates pick up a lot of slack, especially when crises like Zsasz’s arrival happened. 

Zsasz raised the area where his eyebrows would have been and took a seat. “The ladies and our boy came up with something pretty quick.”

“They had plans they preferred, but I vetoed those as being too destructive to my territory. No matter how friendly we are with each other, Mr. Zsasz, I’m extremely territorial, and there are very few people I’m willing to forgive.” 

“No wonder you went into medicine. You’ve got such a charmingly reassuring manner.”

“You’re not the first person to make that crack.” Jonathan steepled his fingers as his forearms rested on his heavy wooden desk. “If you consent to this plan, I will do my part to set the next phase in motion immediately. So. What you need to know about the plan is as follows: instead of me contacting a private supplier to sneak sugar-filled capsules into Arkham for your unwitting nurse to dispense, I’ll be contacting Dr. Kali to sneak a different sort of pill in. I regularly make individual rush orders to start newly arrived patients on their medications before the big weekly delivery arrives, and our intake staff don’t know what all the couriers look like. You’ll start your first dose at breakfast tomorrow. The plan requires you to do one thing you will hate and one thing you will enjoy. You’re going to hate the symptoms and having to conceal them for four days. Four. Days. Your team needs time to make arrangements and for the pills to do their work.”

“I’m assuming this is to get me transferred to a major hospital?” Zsasz asked calmly. 

Jonathan nodded. “You’re going to enjoy the part where you have to do something precisely bad enough to be punished by being put in punitive solitary confinement - which is different from long-term necessity-based solitary - for two of those days. No human interaction except for receiving meals and meds through a door flap and occasionally being checked up on in a cursory manner. This punishment used to happen to the non-criminal patients too until I put my foot down.”

“Because of poor little J - ”

“Don’t say his name within these walls. He doesn’t belong here. Not even in words.” Jonathan felt his face twist into something aggressive against his will.

Zsasz held up his hands. “Sorry. Sore spot, I get it. Is he doing okay now, though? Do you send each other postcards or something?”

 _Deep breaths, Crane._ He must be subconsciously frazzled. “He's fine. Don’t needle me like that, Victor, I’m trying to help you. Task at hand.”

“Right. Sorry again.”

Jonathan took a sip of water to steady himself. “It’s going to be boring for you, but I know you can handle it. You will have to do that thing the day after tomorrow, your second full day on the ‘medication’. This is to make it easier to keep anyone else from noticing your escalating symptoms until they are too advanced to treat in-house. I have no control over discipline of inmates. However, Warden Pelham is required to adhere to a standardized list of punishments to keep him from getting out of hand. Here is a list of infractions to choose from.” He slid it across the desk.

Zsasz read the list with a growing smile. “Cool. Do you want me to tell you, or do you wanna be surprised?”

“Surprise me. Once you’re released from solitary, allow your symptoms to be obvious. By then they will be, and our medical staff’s resources and skills are not sophisticated enough to be able to rule out you having brought in something both life-threatening and infections from before your arrest. If they have cause to suspect that’s what’s going on, they are required to get you out of here and sent to Gotham General immediately.” 

Kali’s experience and Jonathan’s research had told him that the symptoms of acute arsenic poisoning were difficult to distinguish from cholera to the untrained eye. Not that cholera was a huge issue in the U.S. in this day and age, but it wouldn’t be strange for Gotham to have some tasteless wannabe villain introduce it. Even if cholera wasn’t usually contagious from direct person to person contact, that would be at best a hypothetical diagnosis even if it occurred to the Arkham infirmary staff, and the infection protocol would kick in regardless.

“You know, Doc and I used to joke that she was secretly plotting to kill me, but this is a new level.” Zsasz stretched lazily. “What’s the poison?”

“It’s better for me to not tell you what exactly you’re going to be taking, so that when you’re delirious you won’t blurt it out by accident. I can tell you to expect headaches, confusion, and drowsiness at first. Then you’ll start having bloody vomit and diarrhea, as well as blood in your urine. The timing should work out that shortly after you’re permitted to join the general population, you’ll have a dramatic convulsion. Dr. Quinzel and I will do what we can to arrange your schedule as conveniently as possible. Your own doctor is completely certain she can cure you once you’re back in her keeping.” Nefyn had told Jonathan that Kali was the only member of the household who knew much about poisons, beyond how to be vigilant against getting poisoned, so Jonathan wasn’t worried about Zsasz guessing correctly based on those clues. 

“Shit. Literally.” He chuckled briefly at his own wit, but there was a tiny flicker of nervousness in his voice as well. From him, that meant a lot. 

Jonathan looked him in the eye. “Do you consent?”

“If they have all decided it’s worth it, I trust them. Though...can’t we fake appendicitis instead? Hella easier.”

“Sorry, we have it on record that yours was removed long ago. Didn’t Falcone pay for it?”

“Yeah. My appendix was fine, but after one of his other top men died from it, he said I was too valuable to him to have something preventable randomly fuck me up one day and scheduled the surgery. Doc was freaked out about the consent issues when I told her much later, but I thought of it as weirdly nice of him.” Zsasz stared off to space, maybe thinking of times gone by. He shook himself out of it. “Tell my family I’m game.”

****

Since Zsasz wasn’t scheduled for individual therapy that day, he had group therapy instead, in a cheesy circle (not literally, which would be delicious) with a psychologist who preferred everyone call each other by first names to make everything buddy-buddy. That’s how he learned that Dover’s first name was Finn. He zoned out a few times when some of the people in the circle were talking, but he listened to Dover because he was supposed to be finding clues about him.

“Congratulations,” Dover began, slowly rubbing his hands over and over in an anxious gesture. The previous guy had been talking about his evaluation for possible release being moved one year closer because his sister had been approved to become his guardian during his transition back into society. “I don’t have anyone on the outside, though I’m grateful for the friends I’ve made in here. I never had a lot of people. I’d say the last person I was really close to...you know, out there..was my girlfriend from before my first arrest. I actually sort of got arrested because of her, not that it was her fault. She’d asked me the night before if I’d thought about having kids together maybe, and I’d had a few drinks after a hard day. I panicked and said some stupid things I don’t remember anymore. The next morning she was gone and I was pretty sure I’d given the impression I’d broken up with her. Never hurt her on purpose, but I was a difficult boyfriend. I didn’t know what was wrong with me yet.”

“What makes you think this led to your arrest?” the psychologist nudged. He was in his fifties with a rainbow tie-dye shirt under his navy blue blazer, and a taser holstered on his belt. 

“I couldn’t think of anything else and kept trying to come up with how to say sorry and make it up with her,” Dover sighed. “I’ve thought about it for forty years. Got out of my first prison sentence eight years later, tried to find her and reconnect, but the grapevine said she’d died.”

During some unstructured social time later, when Dover let Zsasz join in on a card game with a few others, Zsasz said quietly, “Sorry to hear about your gal. What was her name?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Though that night, he was up for hearing about the Zsaszettes as they lay in the dark. Maybe that’d make him more willing to open up later. 

“What was up with that rainbow tie-dye on that shrink?” Zsasz joked when he ran out of stuff to say that wouldn’t make him sad or horny. “Trying to bring hippie vibes to the circle?”

“Tha’ wha’ tha’ was?” Dover asked drowsily.

Zsasz let him drift off. He was sleepy too, and needed his strength for what was to come.

The next morning, Zsasz obediently took his first dose of poison and headed to breakfast. The man who’d flipped him off two days in a row now had the nerve to sit down right next to him. Late thirties, neckless, bulging veins and beady eyes. Almost certainly used steroids regularly before it no longer was an option. 

“Paul Peretti,” he spat, like that was meant to be important. 

Nonchalantly, Zsasz took a sip of gritty reconstituted powdered milk. “Victor Zsasz.”

“I know who the fuck you are. Paul was my _little brother_.”

“Okay?”

Peretti grabbed Zsasz’s nearest wrist, his right one, and yanked up his sleeve. “He’s one of your sick little tally marks.”

This wasn’t a major surprise, statistically, but Zsasz hadn’t expected to find being threatened and harrassed while unarmed and behind bars this boring. He didn’t bother to recoil or anything. Let people stare. A distant part of him wondered where the joy had gone. “Pipsqueak, you’re not old enough for a little brother of yours to be on my arm. I started on my arms. He’s probably on an asscheek if he’s lucky.”

A lot of people were watching now, but no staff yet. Nobody had raised an alarm. Probably glad for a free show. Zsasz couldn’t give them one today. He was supposed to be naughty tomorrow, not today. 

Letting go of Zsasz’s arm but all puffed up like a bird ready to divebomb, Peretti said, “Not so tough now, though, old man.”

That was the best he could do? “Think about how good I have to be to still be alive. Do you want me to apologize? I can if you want, but I can’t promise that I’ve been drugged enough to sound sincere yet.” Zsasz returned to his gummy oatmeal, though at least there was cinnamon. 

“You’d be a lot braver right now if you had your bitches with you.”

Okay, that was different. But Zsasz clenched his jaw. He wasn’t going to rise to the bait. He needed to stick to the plan.

“They’ve run off to find some new sugar daddy. You know it.” Peretti got to his feet again and laughed. “Kinda sad. But whores are whores. Doesn’t matter if they’re good with guns.”

And Zsasz was sticking to the plan.

To the plan.

The plan.

PLAN.

_Yet somehow Peretti was on the floor now and Zsasz had dislocated his shoulder and given him a black eye and bloody nose and Peretti was crying and -_

He obeyed the second warning to step away rather than be physically hauled away. Everyone was going to be angry enough at him as it was.

****

Everyone else was away working on their parts of the plan. Kali had been teaching Yoona how to assist her in saving Victor’s life, just as she’d taught her over the years to be her primary assistant when caring for any of the others. They’d decided to take a break and enjoy their remaining few hours of privacy, but had only gotten as far as some kisses before Kali’s phone rang and a very terse, tense conversation followed.

Yoona watched Kali place her phone on a shelf and let her stalk around the bedroom a few times, cursing in Bengali. After about a minute of giving her space, Yoona asked, “What happened?”

“Victor lost his temper and assaulted someone this morning, throwing off our entire timeline.” Kali balled her hands into fists. “I am trying so hard, and I’m scared that it’s not going to work and it’ll be on me if it doesn’t, and if we now have one less day to pull this off on an already tight schedule…”

“Hey now, it’s not going to be any worse than Victor’s usual dumbassery, and we’ve always managed to work around it.” Yoona pulled Kali back onto the bed and put her hands on either side of her face.

Kali pressed her forehead against Yoona’s with a sigh. “We might have to shave off the part where we fake his death, if we’re going to keep the parts where we get him out and cure him. He’ll be a fugitive.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. That was only going to be the icing on the cake. Most of us will be fugitives anyway.” Yoona kissed her. In front of other people, Kali was the caring one, but the most caring individuals needed the most caring for.

“I need to make some calls…”

“Nobody’s working on something that doesn’t need to be done even if we change the plan. Let’s have a nice moment. Let me take care of you for less than thirty minutes before you go back to carrying the world.” Keeping one hand on Kali’s cheek, Yoona slipped her other hand up her shirt. They’d decided at the very beginning of their relationship that Yoona could be a recreational Domme to anyone she liked, but she’d only be a lover to Kali. She’d never wanted it otherwise.

Kali went _mmm_ and started melting into the touch. Yoona loved Victor dearly. He’d understand.

****

The solitary confinement cell had a padded floor and walls, with a sink and toilet that were wrapped as much as possible in soft materials as well. The thin mattress was covered in a fluffy comforter instead of sheets someone could wind up and hang themselves with, though there wasn’t anything to hang oneself from. Zsasz filled the plastic cup provided with water from the sink and drank a few gulps while leafing through the battered copy of _Chicken Soup for the Soul_ someone had left behind, either to be nice or as an act of surreal performance art. 

The symptoms didn’t start until that night. As his disciplinary period went on, Zsasz ate the meals he was given as best he could, to reduce how much he was being weakened. Good thing all the padding softened the unpleasant bodily sounds. When he received sponge bath supplies to clean himself a bit it felt like heaven. He ended up mostly lying down and contemplating the many things he had done to deserve this, if there was anything to conventional morality after all. Like a less fun and trippy version of those traditional rituals where people drink plant concoctions to gain spiritual insight.

He dreamed of Leonara most, but that wasn’t new. 

****

Jonathan intercepted Harley in the elevator on her way to the parking lot at the end of her shift. “I’ve got two passes to a three-night theatre festival. Full of stuff I know you like. You won’t have to miss work to come with me.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “This has nothing to do with anything sketchy that might happen during one of the nights, I’m sure.”

“I thought you’d appreciate me facilitating a fun alibi, and it might seem too convenient if we’re only accounted for by law-abiding ordinary strangers on the very same night that...irregularities will occur. Our passes will be scanned both on entrance and exit, and there will be intermissions where lots of people will see us.” Jonathan pushed his glasses up his nose. “Or would I be dragging you away from a couple thing? I don’t want her to kill me. There’s enough poisoning going around.”

“Nothing like that. It sounds fun. I’ve missed hanging out with you outside of work. It’s been, what, four months?”

“Point taken. I’m not a very good friend. We’ve established this.”

Harley snorted. “If that helps you maintain your persona, I’m willing to let you pretend that.”

After a brief silence, Jonathan said, “I’ve been thinking about your Finn Dover hypothesis. I'm skeptical. It’s too...cute.”

“Cute? That’s the adjective you’d go for, out of all the possibilities?” 

Holding up an index finger, Jonathan continued, “But I’ll transfer him to your care and let you decide, once Zsasz is gone and you have a slot that I can justify giving away. I am sometimes willing to be your friend before I’m willing to be rational.”

“I’d hug you if you liked hugs,” Harley said. The doors opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you aren't a follower of the Made to Measure series, the part in the first section where Zsasz upsets Jonathan is a reference to the story "A Bushel and a Peck", which is about my version of Jonathan rescuing a secret clone of himself that resembles the one in Gotham canon shortly before he breaks (think sad shivery abused boi). I wasn't going to bring him up in this fic at first, but I realized it'd be out of character for Zsasz not to mention him during this conversation. Also I wanted to assure veteran readers that his happy ending is still going strong.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emetophobia warning for the first section.

Dover didn’t like being alone for extended periods of time. He was a lot better than he used to be, but when he was alone for hours his brain often started chewing on itself again, seeing things out of the corner of his eye and hearing noises he couldn’t verify as real or not. The daytime was okay. There was enough interaction with other people to keep him grounded, and there was a reassuring familiarity about being on the laundry rotation or running around the exercise yard or being tasked with making paper garlands to cheer up kids in the cancer ward of the hospital. 

(The garlands were one of those things supposed to be a combination of art therapy and helping them increase their compassion for others. People said Dr. Crane liked art therapy and had pushed to make that available for the Inmates as well as the Patients. He didn’t know how much he believed that, because people also said Dr. Crane was a cold bastard who was secretly as crazy as they were but better at hiding it. Either way, Dover was proud to have supervised scissor privileges, while some of the others on the team were only allowed to fold the paper. He’d killed a man with a knife about the same size once, long ago, when he ran out of bullets. It felt like forgiveness every time they handed him scissors.)

But he’d had no company for the past two nights but his mind and a book about a British country veterinarian he’d borrowed from the Arkham library because the cover showed a man holding a lamb and that seemed relaxing. Unless you counted the blue butterfly that had fluttered around above him. It showed up sometimes when he was lonely, like a pet.

(Pathetic.)

People said Zsasz could be friendly and charming in a cocky sort of way if he wanted, and while the charming hadn’t really been there, understandably, he’d been friendly enough. He thought Zsasz would be back this morning but he supposed there had to be paperwork, or maybe the warden was busy. 

But there was a knock on his door an hour or so before lights-out, and Warden Pelham was there with two guards flanking Zsasz. Dover got to his feet and stood at something approximating attention, to stay on the man’s good side. Pelham was tall and bulky enough to have once been a guard himself, but he’d gone soft and pinkish with a desk job. “Here you are, Zsasz. I expect better behavior in the future.”

“Yessir.” Zsasz gave a thumbs-up and what looked like a weak grin. The guards shoved Zsasz in and locked the door. Zsasz nearly went splat onto the floor. He looked pale.

“You okay?” Dover asked, grabbing his shoulders to steady him.

“Yeah, yeah, I think the new meds don’t agree with my stomach. I’ll be fine until morning. Waiting is good. Fixes my mistake. I’mma just...I’mma just sit a second.” He sat on the floor, clutching at his bald head. 

“You don’t sound okay.” Was he sweating? Dover said down next to him, careful not to get in his space too much. 

“I had time to think, Dover, and you’re very, you’re a nice man, for someone who was in the business, but you’re also dense as a dense thing. Bricks. That’s your fucking tragedy.” He laughed all high-pitched and reedy. 

“I’m not gonna take that personally, because I don’t think you’re well at all.”

“I’m not saying all women are the same or that I’m a total expert, but, but I’ve learned things. A thing. From living with either four or five whole women for a longgggg time, depending on if the puppy was a girl.” He pointed at Dover. “They don’t talk as directly as us. A lot of ‘em. You gotta read between. Between.”

“Between the lines?”

“Uh huh. Especially when they think they’ll upset you.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“She was trying to - excuse me.” Zsasz practically crawled to the toilet. Dover averted his eyes as part of Bro Code, but the retching went on and on and on and he chanced a peek. Zsasz looked fragile and miserable. This wasn’t a normal bad reaction to new meds.

“I smell blood,” he said softly 

Zsasz wiped the corner of his mouth and laughed again. “Didn’t know I was rooming with, heh, like, like, what’s he called? Uh. Vamp dude, the OG, no sparkles. Dracula.”

“I’m serious. It’s not a smell I’ll ever forget.”

Then Zsasz’s eyes rolled back and he collapsed on the floor. Convulsing. 

“Shit, shit, shit.” Dover pulled him by the ankles to get his head away from anything it might smash against, then started banging on the door and shouting. _“Help! We need a doctor! It’s an emergency! Somebody help!”_

****

The crew had been all geared up to go get Zsasz this morning. Then Jonathan had called and said the warden was dawdling when it came to his duties in officially ending Zsaz’s confinement, which he insisted on signing off on, and that Zsasz might choose not to reveal his condition until he was out. Which was not necessarily the most logical thing to do, but by this point Zsasz was probably not thinking logically. The medical staff were required to attempt to contact him whenever they called for an ambulance or any other outside medical help, and he’d keep his phone on while out alibi-ing with Harley even if that pissed off some other theatergoers. 

Thistle had been unable to concentrate on the TV show the others were watching, and she was trying to meditate in the storage room. She opened her eyes when she heard footsteps.

“Can I join you?” Leonara asked. 

“Sure. It’s not going well.” She’d stripped down to a purple sports bra and green boyshorts because she felt too warm in here, which revealed all the small green prickles growing on her skin which she didn’t always bother to shave. Keeping her face, neck, and everything below her elbows clear was a lot of work on its own. She wore her black hair in a pixie cut these days, to keep from snagging when she wasn’t all covered up, and to reduce the total amount of maintenance she did on her body.

“Thank you for coming back to help. I know you must be scared.” Leonara arranged herself into an appropriately meditative pose. You’d expect Kali to have been the one to teach Thistle to meditate, but no, despite being an believing (if irregularly-practicing) Hindu, Kali said she was terrible at it. Leonara had learned from a volunteer who’d visited the women’s portion of Blackgate during her time locked up there, and said it had helped her stay sane. Leonara was the least open about her past of all the Zsaszettes. Her sharing this with Thistle had been all the more powerful because of that. 

“Of course I came back. I owe all of you everything, and you need another person who isn’t wanted by the police to pull this off.” Nefyn’s goal was to stay in Gotham after all this, so he couldn’t show his face during any part of the operation. Thistle took a slow breath in and out. “I know Indian Hill isn’t there anymore. I know they tore down the insides and filled sections of it with concrete. Jonathan showed me pictures. But it’ll still be under my feet, and I’m worried it’ll throw me off and I’ll let everyone down.”

Leonara scooted so they were directly across from each other. She held out her hands. “Hands in mine, honey. Palm to palm.”

Her hands were warm. “Sorry if I’m clammy.”

“Even if you were, it’d be fine.” Leonara smiled at her, teeth very white against her dark skin. “The part of our brain that goes on and on with worry and criticism? It’s not really our enemy. It’s just trying too hard. Acknowledge those thoughts, thank them for trying, and let them go.”

Unfortunately, that’s when Yoona burst in. “We gotta move. Get to the van.”

The breakdown was this:

Arkham was in an isolated location, which meant that the ambulance would take awhile to get there and would have no choice but to take one particular road as it got close. They’d researched a good spot to intercept it. They would all be part of the ambush, not actually hurting the paramedics or driver because these were innocent everyday heroes. Then Candy and Knifepoint (not Nefyn, Knifepoint) would gently pile the subdued captives into the van and drop them off in a place where they’d get found pretty quickly but not too quickly. Afterwards, Knifepoint would grab a pre-parked motorcycle and head to their eventual destination to make sure it was ready and secured for everyone else’s arrival. It would suck to get there and find an ambush. Candy would circle back and act as subtle escort for the stolen ambulance, in case the police or FRICKEN BATMAN OH MY GOD (emphasis added by Thistle) figured out that Zsasz was getting away.

The remaining four of them were getting in the ambulance. Thistle slipped on a paramedics uniform on the drive to the hijacking point. Stripping captives would be tasteless and waste time. Already dressed for her part, Kali handed her a fake ID with a proud, fond smile despite the tension in her body. Nefyn gave her a sideways hug before tying on his bandana a bit more firmly. They arrived in time to set up a concertina wire barrier to pause the ambulance in its tracks.

When the ambulance appeared, they swarmed it like an ant colony, making sure they didn’t have time to radio for help. Knifepoint tried to reassure the paramedics while applying zip ties, duct tape, and blindfolds, but with limited success. Candy just kept things businesslike and quick. Leonara helped both of them load up before jumping into the driver’s seat of the ambulance herself. She had put on glasses and a low-key wig, as well as not wearing any of the usual classic Zsaszette makeup or accoutrements. They sped off. 

Yoona was the best at assisting Kali, so she was in the back setting up all the medical stuff they themselves had brought and familiarizing herself with what was already there. Kali identified things upon request but was focusing on reviewing Thistle’s instructions.

She finished by putting a calming hand on Thistle’s shoulder. “Yes, they might find it weird later that we’re both women, given stereotypes, but they’re going to have other things on their mind. The important thing is to act with total confidence, like it would never occur to you for anyone to question your presence there. I’m going to do almost all of the talking. I’ve given you a bunch of stock phrases for you to whip out. Otherwise say you’re new and it’s better to ask me.”

Security waved them through without a blink, both the ambulance and the two women. Zsasz was already near the entrance ready to meet them, and they wheeled him out with the bare minimum of discussion. 

“...Thys?” Zsasz asked, turning his head with difficulty to look up with her. 

She waited until he was in the ambulance itself to pat his hand. “Hi, Mr. Zsasz.”

He was quiet after that, though he remained conscious and seemed happy to see them. Kali got an IV in him straight away for dehydration, and managed to feed him his first dose of succimer, as well as administering drugs to relieve his symptoms. He washed them down with a few gulps of water sipped through a straw.

“Over time the antidote is going to grab all the arsenic in your system so you can pee it out bit by bit,” Yoona said, wiping a droplet from the corner of his mouth. 

“K,” Zsasz said, eyes confused yet also fond. 

Meanwhile, Kali had moved further back in the ambulance and was sitting with her face in her hands. Yoona seemed to be managing for now, so Thistle went to check on her.

“I could have done better,” Kali whispered when Thistle approached.

“I have no idea, but nobody else could have. Definitely.”

Then Leonara yelled, “Pursuit! I need someone up here with guns! Candy can’t hold them all off!”

Thistle grabbed a pair of favorites from the strongbox they’d brought and practically leapt into the passenger seat. She rolled the window down and straightened her shoulders. This, she knew how to do.

****

Zsasz woke in a brightly lit room on a big bed. The room had a rustic look, but fancy rustic, like when rich people wanna play at rustic. He had a needle in his arm, connected to a bag hanging from a stand beside the bed. Leonara was fast asleep next to him in coral-colored silky pajamas, curled close but not touching. On the other side, Thistle was playing a handheld video game with earbuds in.

“Pretty Genius Boy buy you that?” he asked quietly, not wanting to wake Leonara. 

Thistle removed the earbuds and smiled. She spoke equally quietly. “Good afternoon, Mr. Zsasz. No, I bought it for myself.”

“Where is he, anyway?” Thistle’s boyfriend had lived near their old house and would have definitely fled when their home went boom. 

“Parked him in Atlantic City for now, told him to amuse himself at the card tables until I was done here. He’s probably made a few hundred thousand.” Thistle leaned in and whispered, “Is it okay if I run off to Vegas with him? I’m not sure if he means only to sightsee.”

He felt an odd punch of both pride and worry. “I’m not your boss anymore and I’ve never been your dad, darlin’.”

“You kind of are,” she said. Like that was a normal thing to say.

This was getting too real for so soon after a near-death experience, but Leonara saved him by waking up and draping an arm over him. “Mm, missed you, Vic.” 

“I missed you too, Leo, though I’m gonna lie here like a log for a bit instead of cuddling you properly. Where’s everyone else? Call them in.”

Everyone trooped in, all looking exhausted except for Thistle, since she only needed to sleep one out of every three nights. The reunion brightened everyone up considerably. Leonara helped him sit up to dispense and receive hugs and/or kisses, depending on the person.

Nefyn, used to deferring to the ladies of the house, stayed back and went last. Kissing him jogged Zsasz’s memory. His recollection of everything that happened after a certain point of his symptoms was quite hazy, but he remembered something he’d tried to say and not quite gotten out. 

“Are you okay?” Nefyn asked, frowning at whatever was on Zsasz’s face.

“She was about to tell him she was pregnant, and he cut her off and drove her away before she did,” Zsasz said. 

Nefyn gave Kali a pleading look. “Umm…”

“And I get it now, he was saying _is that what it was_ , telling me that he didn’t know the shirt was - Doc, how rare is Nefyn’s color blindness type again?" 

“Deuteranopia? It’s one percent of males, while the most common kind, deuteranomaly, is five percent.” When Candy coughed, Kali backtracked. “I mean one percent of people with XY chromosomes.”

“Thank you,” Candy stage-whispered.

“Where are you going with this?” Nefyn asked. 

In Nefyn's puppy days, he and Zsasz had a long conversation to determine how his vision might affect him in the field. One tidbit that had stuck with him through the decades was that someone with deuteranomaly could see a rainbow design on a shirt and know what it was supposed to be, simply missing a lot of the nuances. But someone with _deuteranopia_ would see nothing but yellows and blues. There was only one way to get the condition, and Nefyn's male maternal relatives hadn't had it.

Zsasz felt too heavy to stay upright any longer. “I met your dad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I found a cool graphic that shows what the rainbow looks like to Nefyn and his father.](https://news.eyeque.com/2018/03/19/how-do-we-see-color/deuteranopia-rainbow/)
> 
> I have also mentioned in a previous fic that Nefyn's mother had a tramp stamp tattoo that was a blue butterfly, except its body was a folded butterfly knife.


End file.
